I’ve no mother.
She has another set of children,
That she says are angels…
More like thieves.
They’ve stripped me of all things consequential to me.
Tore the clothes from my back,
And covered themselves.
Leaving me naked.
My mind,
Unveiled.
Oh.
I watch as she frets over that pernicious trio.
She’s beneath their claws…
They’ve captured her in their web of masks,
Masks of blasphemy.
I fall.
It is they,
Who have caused this unanticipated excursion.
One that has led me to my doom…
For I have nothing;
AM nothing,
Without my mother alongside me in this:
Bemused;
Vexed;
And this stock-still state of mind.
They’re shape-shifters.
They redress themselves everyday,
Concealing their future schemes of domination,
In the house of my kin.
A house that was once built on conviction,
But was wrecked,
Then built upon deception.
They are the construction workers,
My mother is their blueprint,
The house is preordained to collapse upon myself,
So that any competition they would have had is tucked away.